


The Slayer Master

by Laetitia_Laetitii



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Kindred Spirits, Morytania, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laetitia_Laetitii/pseuds/Laetitia_Laetitii
Summary: A short fic featuring Mazchna, the Slayer Master of Canifis, and the things he hears in the pub.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	The Slayer Master

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh, yes, he's such a mine of information. He hears what's going on at the pub, listens to the gossip of passing adventurers, and now he's off on a great journey himself." -Achtryn about Mazchna, While Guthix Sleeps

Night had already fallen when the Slayer Master returned to his village.

The track he was following had been all but swallowed by weeds, and in the faint light of the moon it was visible as little more than a series of pale patches against the forest floor. In the impenetrable dark around him, unseen things cried and crept and hunted, and rom time to time, a twig would snap under his tread and send invisible feet fleeing deeper into the night. The Slayer Master, however, did not startle at the sounds. He strolled along unhurried, relishing the wind on his face and the smell of the forest growing and rotting in the cool summer air. On his hip, his sheathed sword beat time against the metal of his plate leg. In his belt pouch, his gift jingled merrily as he walked.

The Slayer Master was not afraid of the forest. The howls echoing from the treetops did not move him, no more than did the flame-red eyes that followed him from bushes, unblinking, only to vanish as he drew close. Truth to be told, he had little to fear from any of the creatures of the night. Firstly, the Slayer Master, thanks to his profession, was quite equipped to handle any of the beings that stalked the Haunted Woods. Secondly, he was wholly inedible.

***

The first thing the Slayer Master did upon his return was pay his rent.

He made his home not in the village but in the woods without, in an ancient stone shack at the edge of the fens. The shack had been long abandoned when the Slayer Master first settled there, but Grigory the weaver had laid a claim to its ownership, and the Slayer Master had conceded. And while the whole village knew that old Grigory’s claim was insubstantial, so was the sum he asked in rent, and the Slayer Master paid it in good time every month. It kept the peace.

Tonight, he did not stop at home but continued along the path, which now had grown wider and showed the prints of recent feet. When it curved to follow a clear little creek, he could already see the lights between the trees.

There was not a soul about when the Slayer Master entered the village. It was a small, decayed place, a brood of mildewed timber huts huddled around an overgrown square, their backs turned to the dark woods and the mist-covered marsh. Despite the late hour, lights burned behind their closed shutters. The Slayer Master knew old Grigory would be awake, and he made it straight for the weaver’s house.

Grigory opened the door on the third knock.

“It is the Slayer Master,” the weaver exclaimed, though without genuine surprise. “You’ve been gone for a long time.”

“So I have Grigory,” the Slayer Master replied, smiling slightly. “Not long enough for you to find another tenant, I hope?” As he spoke, he dug into the pouch on his belt and counted out a dozen tarnished coins, which he dropped on the weaver’s outstretched palm.

“I am not so lucky,” Grigory said, picking a still-warm coin between thumb and forefinger. “Now look at these! Who paid you in the old coinage?”

“Not paid. Gifted,” the Slayer Master corrected. “The people out east did. They hardly have a need for it themselves, anymore. Evening, Grigory.” Without waiting for a reply, the Slayer Master left.

From the weaver’s house he made his way across the town square, to a house grander and better kept than the others, with an indecipherable sign creaking above its open door. From its open windows issued the warm glow of a fire, and the murmur of many voices in conversation carried out into the quiet night.

No silence fell when the Slayer Master walked in, but from the hitch in the voices around him it was clear that his arrival had been noticed. It usually was, and the Slayer master paid no mind to the people side-stepping around him as he trip-trapped across the dimly lit room to the bar.

At the other end of the counter, the innkeeper was deep in conversation with two travellers, their heads bent together. As the Slayer Master slid onto his accustomed stool, the innkeeper disengaged, and excusing himself, sauntered over to him.

“Mazchna, friend, how are you?” The innkeeper was a wiry, greying man, whose gravelly voice carried effortlessly over the din of the room. As he came face to face with the Slayer Master, his mouth split into a grin, revealing rows of yellow teeth. “Where’ve you been hiding all this time?”

“Evening, Roavar,” the Slayer Master replied, smiling. “Draw me a pint of moonlight and another one for yourself, and I’ll tell.”

The innkeeper did, and the two toasted without a word. The Slayer Master touched his tankard to his lips before setting it down; the innkeeper downed half of his in one go, wiped his mouth on his hand, and fixed his eyes on his companion.

“That was welcome,” he said. “It’s been a long time, Mazchna.”

“I was needed out east,” the Slayer Master replied. “A pack of bloodveld turned up in the woods south of Port Phasmatys. The sailors coming on shore didn’t appreciate them.”

“Never heard of bloodveld in them parts.”

“It was a first for me too. Some vyrelord let his pets go, by the look of it. Huge things, half-starved. Nothing for them to hunt around there. The pack dispersed after my first encounter with them, and it took me two weeks to track the lot down. Then on the way back to town a feral vyre got the drop on me. I subdued him easily enough, but he did not care for being trussed up and dragged to Port Phasmatys to be reconverted.” The Slayer Master grinned wryly. “But enough of me. Tell me, friend, what news of Canifis?”

“Not much,” said the innkeeper. He had located a sliver of wood in his apron pocket and was poking it between his teeth with a vengeance. “Couple blood traders showed up, but I don’t think they did much business. A few reconverted from down south passed through too. They’re all settling in the coast now. Taking over the abandoned places, away from everybody else. Poor bastards.”

“Any news from Sanguinesti, then?” The Slayer Master asked.

“No. You know the reconverted; they don’t talk much. But—hell.” The innkeeper glanced around before continuing in a lower voice. “That’s what I meant to tell you about. They weren’t alone: Young Abidor Crank had taken them across the swamp from Mort’ton. He stopped here for the night as usual, and he told me a funny story. One that might be of interest to you.”

The innkeeper leaned over, his forehead almost touching the Slayer Master’s helmet. “Night before he left, Abidor says, three humans turned up in the village after midnight. Three human women, foreigners all, two of them carrying the third on a makeshift stretcher. The two were bruised badly enough, but the third one didn’t have much of a face left. Smashed to a bloody mess, he said. At any rate, they woke the whole place up, knocking on doors and crying for help until people thought the shades had risen again. They were too shocked to talk much, though, and the only thing anyone could get out of them was that they’d come from the Barrows. How they’d wound up in there, they couldn’t or wouldn’t tell. In the end Cyreg, the boatman, agreed to take them down to Burgh de Rott in his dinghy. There’s a foreign healer practicing there, and the one on the stretcher looked like she might need one. The strange thing is, Cyreg seemed to recognise her. Tall skinny woman in black. Cyreg said she was from—” The innkeeper paused to search for the word, and then, twisting his tongue around its foreign sounds, pronounced carefully “from, yes, _Kandarin.”_

Upon hearing the last word, Mazchna froze.

“Kandarin?” He repeated flatly.

“I fear so,” Roavar said.

Mazchna stayed silent for a while, his face unreadable. Then, with great clatter of armour he pushed back his stool and got up.

“Thank you for the beer, Roavar,” he said. “And the information. Both were excellent, as usual. But now, I’m afraid, I must go. I have friends to contact.” The Slayer Master reached into his belt pouch and laid on the counter a handful of ancient coins. “Good night.”

“Good night, Mazchna,” the innkeeper said. And then, speaking to himself as the demon tripped-trapped out into the night, he added, “I thought you would.”

**Author's Note:**

> As those who follow me on Twitter might have noticed, I've recently been on a roll thinking about Mazchna, the Avernic Slayer Master based in Canifis. I've also been thinking a lot about post-Kindred Spirits Aileen, resulting in this.
> 
> Any feedback/crit about the writing, especially the dialogue and the way the story proceeds, is welcome.
> 
> First fic I wrote from scratch and finished since going on hiatus in spring 2018. I'm back.


End file.
